Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  WOUNDS of HONOUR

  Empire: Volume One

  ANTHONY RICHES

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Wounds of Honour

  Marcus took a deep breath.

  ‘Dubnus, you’ve said it a dozen times in the last week. I was a praetorian officer, but I never saw action, so it was just a ceremonial job ... looking good in uniform, knowing what to say to whom ... I’m going to need you to help me be a real officer, a warrior leader. What else can I give you in return?’

  ‘I make you a warrior, you’ll make me a centurion?’

  ‘Not a warrior. I may yet surprise you in that respect. A warrior leader. It’s what I’ll have to achieve if I’m to survive here.

  Or die trying.’

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © Anthony Riches 2009

  The right of Anthony Riches to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978-1-848-94854-9

  Book ISBN 978-0-340-92032-9

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Contents

  Wounds of Honour

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  A Preview of ARROWS of FURY

  About the author

  To Helen, for unfailing patience and encouragement.

  And above all else, for Silloth.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  By far the most important thanks to be offered by the author must go to my immediate family, Helen, John, Katie and Nick. I suspect that much longer faces would have been pulled that ‘summer’ day in 1996 if it had been clear exactly what the proposed visit to Housesteads, the site of Wounds of Honour’s ‘The Hill’, would mean in terms of my on/off relationship with the manuscript – and therefore to a degree with my loved ones – over the next twelve years.

  The guiding influences that led me to put my hands on a word processor with serious intent – even if I wasn’t quite sure what that intent was at the time other than a burning feeling that I could do that – were, in chronological order; my mother for my letters and the reading habit; my father for fuelling it with his illuminating military history collection and highly informed, unpatronising debate on each fresh subject as I greedily consumed it; and Michael Elliott-Bateman for teaching me how to read the much more interesting stories hidden between the lines. Lastly, with the writing habit already established, the novels of Stephen Pressfield and (of course) Patrick O’Brian particularly stand out as having provided me with signposts as to the level of quality that would be required of my writing were I to stand any chance of publication. Mr Pressfield in particular, his subject matter so close to my chosen time period and with such remarkable skills, left me staring into space wondering whether I should even continue with my half-formed manuscript on more than one occasion. I credit Gates of Fire more than any other single book for influencing my eventual writing style.

  In writing Wounds of Honour I have been dependent on more sources of information than I can recall, but particular influence has been exercised by Kevan White’s remarkable website, www.roman-britain.org. Kevan showed me that the dry Latin place names we ascribe to the forts on Hadrian’s Wall – and so many other places – hide so much from our understanding what made the Romans tick, essentially and unsurprisingly, like any other human society. The second that Brocolitia (Carrawburgh) became ‘Badger Holes’ (the literal translation from the Latin) in my head, a good deal else changed in my view of the Wall’s occupiers. Kevan’s website is an excellent source of information of all sorts with regard to Hadrian’s Wall and its occupiers. Any reader with the curiosity to delve behind my necessarily light touch with the wealth of information available on this period in British history could do no better than to start here.

  I haven’t been an academic for over twenty-five years now, and so my contacts with academia have necessarily been limited, but I must single out for thanks Dr Simon James of Leicester University for his help in understanding the dominant land use patterns along the Wall in the late second century.

  Lastly, when it comes to thanking those involved in getting the manuscript out of its long hibernation on my succession of memory sticks, several people have been instrumental. For those fateful words ‘my book’s doing well’ one cold and windy night in a Belfast security office, and for his unselfish encouragement of a fellow author, Gerry Tate, author of Cappawhite, deserves special thanks. Buy his book! Daniel Kelly and John Mahon were both encouraging at a time when I was just starting to let people see what I’d been nurturing for so long, and both offered honest and constructive criticism that boosted my confidence in the idea of trying to get it published.

  Pivotally, Robin Wade of Wade and Doherty Literary Agency saw enough in the script to have a go at selling it on my behalf, and Carolyn Caughey at Hodder and Stoughton saw enough to want to put it in front of paying readers. I am extraordinarily grateful to both of them. Their acceptance of the script for representation and then publication were revelatory moments for me.

  Without all these influences, sources, critics and publishing professionals there would be no Wounds of Honour, nor the stories to follow in the Empire series as Marcus Valerius Aquila takes his fight for survival and revenge across the length and breadth of Emperor Commodus’ imperium. To all mentioned, and to those I have omitted for reasons of space, for either instilling the idea of publication or for helping to make it happen, my heartfelt thanks.

  Preface

  November, AD 181

  A brisk autumnal breeze stirred the leaves lining the forest floor, the sharp gust lifting a handful of discarded foliage into a brief dancing spiral before leaving it to flutter its way back to the ground. Padding softly over the shadow-dappled ground, a small hunting party advanced slowly out of the forest’s gloom with spears held ready to throw. The men stepped with deliberate care, each foot lifted slowly and placed back on to the leafy carpet with smooth delicacy. Their movements were unconsciously coordinated, each man obviously familiar with his fellows’ actions from long practice. Calgus, tribal leader of the Selgovae and undisputed ruler of the free northern tribes, was doing what he usually did to relax when he wasn’t roaming the lands north of the Roman wall, pushing forward his preparations for the coming war. Accompanied by his five-man bodyguard, Calgus was hunting wild boar.

  While his rule of the land to the north of the Roman wall that split Britannia into two halves was absolute, by right of both blood and simple domination of the other tribal leaders, the presence of his closest protectors was an obvious necessity. With a
brooding imperial presence barely fifty miles to the south, it was prudent to assume the worst even in something as simple as a day’s hunting.

  ‘The pigs seem to have our scent, my lord, either that or something else has put them to fright.’

  The speaker spat his disgust into the leaves. Another man, stepping softly across the leafy ground beyond him, nodded, keeping his eyes fixed to their front.

  ‘Aye. If this carries on we’ll be reduced to roasting hedgehogs.’

  Calgus chuckled softly, hefting his spear as if rediscovering its balance.

  ‘You know the rules, Fael. We eat only what we kill in open hunt. If you want to put meat on the fire this evening then keep your wits about you and your spear ready to throw. You might offer a prayer to Cocidius while you’re at it. Pray for a big stag to wander our way. And you, Caes, for all that the local animal population isn’t jumping on to your pigsticker, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on a fine crisp day like this, now, would you?’

  Caes grimaced, making a stabbing motion with his spear to emphasise his point.

  ‘I’d rather be hunting Romans, my lord.’

  Fael smiled across at Calgus, raising his eyebrows into his ‘here we go again’ face. They were used to the bodyguard’s bloodthirsty hatred of their former overlords. Calgus winked at him before speaking, taking his eyes off the surrounding forest for a moment.

  ‘Yes, Caes, as you never tire of telling us. When we finally get the tribes to go to war with them I’ll free you from this tiresome duty and put you in the front rank of the warband, give you the chance to swing an axe with the other champions and ...’

  Caes, turning to reply with a wry smile, lurched backwards with the sudden impact of a hunting arrow which punched its vicious barbed-iron head into his chest with a sound like a spear driven hard into a boar’s ribs. He stared down stupidly at the arrow’s protruding shaft for a moment before dropping first to his knees, then on to all fours. Beyond him, Fael toppled backwards into the leaves with an arrow through his throat, a bright fan of blood spraying across the forest floor.

  Calgus turned back to his front and hefted his spear, aware that he was hugely vulnerable whether he fought or ran. The hidden archers loosed another pair of arrows into the men to his left while the remaining bodyguards were still looking for targets for their own spears. His last companion fell as he bounded forward to defend his king, his spear arcing uselessly into the trees in a last desperate throw as he went down with a pair of arrows in his chest. The king waited for a long moment for his turn to come, bracing for the arrows’ impact, but none came. Thrusting his spear defiantly into the soft earth, he drew his sword, the scrape of metal loud in the sudden silence. He called out into the forest’s deadening gloom, lifting the weapon into a fighting stance.

  ‘Come on, then, let’s get this done. Sword, spear or bow, it makes no difference to me. I can go to meet Cocidius knowing that whoever you are, however far you run, my people will hunt you down and gut you slowly for what you do today.’

  After another moment’s silence, with the only sound his own harsh breathing, figures broke from the cover of the forest’s scrubby bushes. Four men stood, two slinging bows across their backs and drawing swords, two carrying spears ready to throw. The latter advanced to within easy throwing range and halted, keeping him under constant threat, while the other two men followed with more leisure. One of them, his face obscured by a deep hood, spoke out while the other, a black-bearded athlete with a long sword at his belt, stood impassively beside him.

  ‘So, Calgus. It seems that we have you at something of a disadvantage.’

  His Latin was cultured, almost urbane.

  The Briton laughed, disturbingly relaxed in the face of levelled spears.

  ‘So, Roman, you’ve come to talk. And there I was bracing myself for your blade.’

  The hooded figure nodded slowly.

  ‘Oh yes, you’re just as the stories tell. I’ve just slaughtered your bodyguard ... well, most of them ...’

  He pointed to Caes, still helpless on hands and knees, a thin line of bloody drool trickling from his mouth.

  ‘Finish that one.’

  His companion flashed out his blade and stepped forward, stabbing down into the helpless Briton’s exposed neck, then stepped back with the sword held ready. Calgus stood completely still, watching the act impassively. The hooded man spoke again.

  ‘Better ... and yet there you stand, as relaxed as if we were your oldest friends and not foreign assassins with your life at the points of our spears and your brother warriors dead at our hands. Well, Calgus, for all your obviously genuine bravado, whether you live or die is as yet not clear. Not even to me ... A word to my rather rough-edged colleague here will have your guts steaming in the leaves, without very much thought and certainly without any remorse at all. You can be a problem removed for Rome in the blink of an eye, or an ally for one particular Roman over the next few months. Choose the former and you’ll end your days here with minimal honour and no dignity. Choose the latter and you’ll stand to win a prize beyond that of any king of this land over the last hundred years.’

  The Briton narrowed his eyes, seeking to discern the truth in his ambusher’s eyes.

  ‘What prize?’

  ‘An eagle, Calgus, an imperial legion’s standard, and quite possibly the head of that legion’s commander to boot. So, king of “free Britannia”, are you minded to discuss a bargain with me, or would you rather negotiate with this barbarian’s blade?’

  ‘You seem to leave me without much of a choice. What token do I have of your sincerity, if this is a deal to be made at the point of your sword? And how do you know I’ll keep it?’

  The hooded man nodded to his companion, who struck at the nearest of the spearmen with unexpected speed and dropped him into the leaves with his throat opened, then reversed his sword and ducked under the other’s spear-thrust. He punched his blade’s point through the man’s ribs with one powerful thrust, then twisted the sword quickly and ripped it free, the open wound spraying blood across his booted feet as the man fell helplessly to the forest floor and started to bleed out.

  ‘You’ll be needing some sign of your victorious struggle with your would-be assassins if your people aren’t to smell a rat. I trust you can spin a colourful yarn to explain how you cheated your killers? And I know you’ll keep the bargain if you make it – the inducements I’m offering are too strong for you to do anything else. Now, make your mind up, Calgus. Shall we be partners in your long-planned war on my people?’

  Calgus spat into the leaves.

  ‘For all the bad taste in my mouth, I will entertain your scheme.’

  ‘Good. Now give me that flashy brooch that’s holding your cloak closed. Don’t worry, you’ll see it again in another place ...’

  Calgus unpinned the brooch, an intricately worked gold replica of a shield, decorated with a swirling pattern, a polished piece of amber in place of the shield’s metal boss, dropping it on to the outstretched palm. The hooded man turned away, calling back a parting comment over his shoulder while his companion backed away beside him, sheathing his sword and taking the bow from its place on his shoulder. He nocked an arrow and lifted the bow in readiness to shoot, deterring any thought of pursuit.

  ‘You will see me again, Calgus, but not before you have your people in the field with death in their hearts.’

  The two men merged with the forest’s shaded depths and were lost to the king’s eyes. He stood staring after them for a long moment before turning back to his fallen companions.

  ‘Death in their hearts, Roman? That won’t be hard to arrange.’

  1

  Februarius, AD 182

  One of the front rank spotted them first, a good three dozen men silhouetted against the afternoon’s bright skyline where the road rose to surmount a ridge that crossed their path in its long descent from the Pennines’ eastern shoulder. He shouted a warning in a voice made hoarse by urgency. The small detachme
nt’s commander, a veteran watch officer with a face seamed by experience, stopped in mid-stride and followed the man’s pointing arm, taking a moment to measure the depth of their predicament. When the road had risen to its previous vantage points he’d seen no other troops in front or behind them, just the plodding mule cart they’d passed an hour ago, now far behind them. That many barbarians would make short work of his sixteen men, and the legionaries’ heavy armour ruled out any chance that they could outpace their ambushers back down the road to the south. Dropping his pack on to the verge, he drew his sword and pointed with it towards the distant enemy. Unless he kicked his dithering troops into activity quickly the tiny unit would shatter before the barbarians got within spear-throw.

  ‘Piss buckets and shields! Form a line!’

  He kicked one of the nearest men in the backside to reinforce his point. Hard.

  ‘Fucking move!’

  The legionaries shed their pack yokes at the roadside and fumbled to free shields slung across their backs with fingers turned numb by fear, quickly forming a thin line across the road. Helmets, previously hanging round their necks, were slid over their heads, the cheek-pieces adding a much-needed martial brutality to faces suddenly pale with terror. The watch officer stalked out in front of them, sword still drawn.

  ‘Eyes on me! On me!’

  The legionaries unwillingly dragged their gaze away from the advancing barbarians, now streaming down the shallow slope a few hundred paces away.

  ‘Don’t worry, you lot are so pretty compared to the local girls, this bunch are probably looking for a shag rather than a fight.’

  One or two of them smiled wanly, which was better than nothing.

  ‘And they fucked up by giving us time to get dressed up for the party. So, when I give the order, throw your spears, air your blades and get ready for them to hit your shields. Use your shields to throw them back! Don’t leave the line. They want you to fight alone, outnumbered three to one, or to run so’s they can spear you in the dog blossom. Your best chance ...’